


leogere

by anderfels



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drabble, F/M, False Identity, Gen, Liars falling in love tbh, Lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderfels/pseuds/anderfels
Summary: “Ettie?” he says, and she hums in reply. “How much of that was true?”For a second, Marjorie can’t breathe, can’t get air past her lips. She blinks at the fractured ceiling. “You tell me.”





	leogere

**Author's Note:**

> Old English leogere "liar, false witness," agent noun from Anglian _legan_ , West Saxon _leogan_ "be untruthful, lie".
> 
> a tiny drabble i wrote a very long time ago, concerning my sole survivor and deacon, two consummate liars

“You know, it’s funny.”

Marjorie sets the box down. Grease shines on the tips of her fingers, skin bright in stolen firelight. There’s dirt on her face, a bruise starting to swell beneath her bottom lip, and the shadows are long and deep below her eyes.

Deacon hums in response. He’s resting his head on the wall, but she can’t tell whether his eyes are closed or open behind his glasses. Known to watch, as he is. 

“Two hundred years,” Marjorie says, “and the food is exactly the same.” She glances at the back of the empty box, Blamco label illegible with the age of the thing. It was a miracle so much from before had survived. They must have lined the packaging with lead.

“It was gross back then too.”

His lips twitch, and Deacon sits slightly more upright, sighing with day-long tiredness, the weariness of travel and little sleep. “Ain’t a surprise,” he says. He stretches, resettles. Folds his arms over his chest. 

They’re holed up in a Colonial era townhouse, crowded around a fire on what’s left of the first floor. The majority of the floorboards have collapsed into chaos below, leaving them a jagged corner perch to call theirs, the covered windows hiding them from the Commonwealth night. Until dawn, it’s home.

He gets the feeling she wants to talk. Or needs, perhaps. They banter easily enough usually. But the day was hard, and Deacon knows they’re both too tired, drifting in the space between survival mode and sleep. He watches her behind his glasses, how she picks at the hem of her dress.

“What was your life like? Back then? Apart from the shitty package macaroni.”

She jerks her head up. Wide eyes meet the glare reflecting off his lenses, and she softens. “You mean you don’t already know?” she asks.

He answers, smirking, “I’m good, darlin’, but not that good.”

She grants him a smirk in return. “I was…born in Albany,” she says, and realises that will need an explanation a moment later. “It’s west of here, or  _ was _ . In New York state, the Eastern Commonwealth.”

How can he possibly understand. Even the word ‘Massachusetts’ seemed to have little meaning these days, least of all to the people that lived in it. 

Deacon nods, because it’s the polite thing to do, and he may be one of the more educated wastelanders, but he still has little concept of fifty states and thirteen commonwealths, united under one federation flag. 

Marjorie continues. “I grew up there, with my Dad and my Mama.” She smiles a little, and Deacon notes how bright the flash of her teeth are in the firelight. Too white for the wasteland. “Got an older brother, Isaiah.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. He lived in New York, got married, had two daughters. I don’t know what… I don’t know what happened to him, when the- Well, the bombs. He’s dead, I guess.”

Deacon frowns, safe behind the sunglasses. “Doubt he looks as good as you do after 200 years, at any rate.”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth he feels vile, but Marjorie chuckles, light as air and utterly humourless. He clenches all his fingers, folded into his chest. Smiles at her in apology.

“I was good at school. I was in the debate team,” Marjorie says. The hem of her dress wrinkles as she pulls a loose thread, immediately smoothing it back out with her thumbs. “Really loved history, so I applied for college in Boston- Not the famous one, the other one.”

“Not a science girl?”

She shakes her head. “I met Nate there. Nathaniel.”

Deacon grins. “Nathaniel?  _ Awesome _ .”

“Says the man with the fakest code name I’ve ever heard,  _ Deacon _ .”

They both laugh, and Deacon concedes the point. After a moment, Marjorie speaks again, softer. A crease appears between her eyebrows, eyelashes casting sprawling shadows over her cheeks, eerie and unnatural. “Back then, people used to call it ‘love at first sight’. He was…everything.”

She smiles, just a quirk of her lips. “He got into politics, wanted to change the world. I went on to study education, so I could be a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

“Mm. I wanted to teach kids. I always had good teachers at school, so I guess I wanted to return the favour.”

Deacon nods a little, then leans his head back against the wall. “Seems like you.”

“Stayed in Boston after all my training, worked in a school. Nate travelled a lot, but we kept in touch. Eventually he got a job in the city, so we- We settled down. And it was...everything I ever wanted.”

“I’m glad.”

Marjorie smiles again, though she can’t be sure if Deacon is looking at her or not. She studies the back of the Blamco Mac & Cheese box, the way the fire moves the light on the surface.

“We had a church wedding. I got pregnant. Shaun was born last- Uh. Shaun was born in the spring.”

She falls quiet, and Deacon supposes the story has come to its end. The fire starts stuttering. Marjorie doesn’t work to keep it alight.

“Thanks,” Deacon says, though it was mostly for her benefit. That’s what companions do, he reasons. Share personal details in the pursuit of camaraderie. Campfire and cramped space optional.

Nodding, Marjorie once again discards the Blamco box, shifting over to her sleeping bag, rolled on the floor beside her on their slice of shelter. The house is mostly solid, even if a large part of the interior is falling down. It’s not safe, but it’s enough.

She sets tonight’s bed flat and stretches her arms. It’d do them both good to get some rest, and the journey would continue tomorrow. She hears Deacon moving too, sees his silhouette flatten to lie tucked against the wall.

“I’ll take first watch,” Marjorie says after a while. Unnecessary, because she always does. She toes off her boots, slips her feet into her sleeping bag. Her head rests back against the wall, an arm’s length from Deacon, the dying fire casting her face in shades of orange and brown. A .50 Calibre rifle lies to her dominant side, propped in parallel to her. Easy to reach.

She settles, listens to the night outside.

It’s an hour or so before Deacon speaks, and he’s almost whispering when he does. He rolls over to face her, sunglasses discarded so that she can see the shine of his eyes through the darkness. The fire is nothing but a glow in the tin can hearth.

“Ettie?” he says, and she hums in reply. “How much of that was true?”

For a second, Marjorie can’t breathe, can’t get air past her lips. She blinks at the fractured ceiling. “You tell me.”

She hears the low rumble of Deacon’s chuckle bubble from beside her, the huff of his breath through his nose. He props himself on his elbow. “It was good up until you mentioned your husband,” he says, deep in his throat, voice creaking as though he had really been asleep in the meanwhile. “Voice was wrong. How much was true?”

Marjorie tips her head to the side. Lazy with fatigue, she smiles at him, her teeth bright. Her voice is clipped. “Not one word,” she says. Deacon swears, stares at her like she’s a memory he had long forgotten.

“Holy shit,” he says, and laughs.


End file.
